


The course of true love never did run smooth

by princessoftheworlds



Series: Tomione!AUs [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, F/M, Not Really Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6281338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortality was meant for the both of them. He spent a thousand years away from her, only to find her again. Except it's not her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The course of true love never did run smooth

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first Tomione piece I ever wrote. I love it, so, so much.

_It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves._

-William Shakespeare

 

 _Immortality_. Thousands of witches and wizards scoff at the idea of eternal life, responding that Hekate, their patron and creator, only gifted certain members of the human race with magik so that those humans can achieve their potential and more but _only in their own lifetime._ The humans cover _immorality_ with sugarcoated imagery and symbols, romanticizing it. Those with magik in their blood know _immortality_ as it truly is, a desperate and hopeless bid to escape Death.

As a young boy, Themistocles believes that unlocking the secret of eternal life could bring immense and unknown power to the immortal. The other magical beings mock and disapprove of his beliefs, so Them never tells anyone the true reasons of his practice of magik, deciding that no one holds similar notions about _immortality_.

No one, until he meets Hermia.

Hermia is the talented and intellectual daughter of a rich merchant. Them stumbles upon her trying to practice magik in the woods. Hermia lives in a small town where magik is ignored and disapproved of, so she has no way of learning to control her own magik until Them takes it upon himself to teach her.

Within the period of Hermia’s schooling, Them and Hermia fall in love. She is one of the only people who Them deems his equal and is the only one he ever tells about his beliefs. Hermia too agrees that the secret of _immortality_ should be unlocked, but she believes that eternal life would bring true wisdom and knowledge. (Each to their own, Them states.)

They are opposing forces, extremely different but exactly alike. Them is the dark, alluring ( _Never underestimate the allure of darkness._ ) and silent. He exudes charisma and power and danger, experience. He’s alabaster-skinned, charcoal-eyed, ebony-haired. Hermia is the light, captivating ( _She’s strong, she’s beautiful, she’s full of light_.) and bright. Chocolate eyes, golden hair, ivory skin. She lights up every room she walks into; she is the epitome of innocence.

Together they set off to achieve _immortality_ , and they do. (They find that true _immortality_ comes from death, the ultimate end bringing ‘round a new beginning.)

In the end, they create a dose of an elixir, an infusion of belladonna and phoenix blood. (The belladonna being a symbol of death; the phoenix blood being a symbol of rebirth. It is the perfect blend.)

They drink. (The elixir is fire burning down his throat, Them decides. He reaches to grasp Hermia’s dainty hand in his own. He can feel the strength, the life leaving his body, his hand barely trembling upwards. _What a cruel joke this immortality is?_ Then all he feels is himself.)

 

When Them awakens, he is alone. Hermia is no longer with him. (There’s darkness all around him. Where’s his light?) He is aware of everything, though there’s nothing around him. He panics, breath coming faster and harder, head shaking side to side. (Why is she no longer next him? They were together at the end. They should be together for the rest of eternity.)

“You won’t find her.” A cool voice floats eerily around him. “Your Hermia is gone.”

This statement gives him strength to lunge to his feet. “What do you mean?” he questions, confused, angry, upset. “Where is she? I know that she is still with me!” (She can’t be gone. What went wrong? They were meant to reach Death together.)

“You were not meant to achieve immortality. It was a mistake. You are now a mistake. You’ve upset the balance of Nature.” The voice is devoid of emotion.

“Who are you? Are you Death? Are you Hekate?” Them snarls. “What have you done?”

Something glimmers in the darkness before him. (It is light. Not his light. Not his Hermia.) A figure emerges. She has blond hair tumbling down her back in twisted braids and is hooded in an elaborate cloak. “I am your patron. I am your guardian. You were meant to die. You must die. But, now, you cannot. You were one of my own. Both of you were. You are now on your own.”

“Stop speaking in riddles!” Them tries to lunge for this mysterious woman’s throat, but something holds him in his place. “WHERE IS MY HERMIA?!”

The woman turns, staring directly at Them now. “I am Hekate. I was the one who gave you your magik. Hermia was simply caught in your lust for power. Have your power now! Have your immortality! Your Hermia paid the price! She died so you could live past your lifetime! Immortality is not a gift or a blessing! Immortality is a curse, and now, you must bear it!”

Them freezes. ( _No. No. NO, NO, NO!_ Immortality was meant for the both of them! He can’t live without his light. He’d be stuck in his darkness for eternity!) “Take it back! I don’t want your immortality! Take it back!” he screams. “Take it back! I want you to take this _evil curse_ back! Take it back! Take it back!”

 

Them is still screaming when he awakens again. (This time, everything has changed.) He bolts upright. (Everything is burning. Everything hurt! _Make it stop. Make it stop!_ ) His head lolls to the side, and he spots a head of wild curls, expressive eyes gazing unseeing at the sky. Something swells in his heart. Them stumbles to his knees to gain a better look at the body next to him.

It is, in fact, his Hermia. She looks peaceful and small in death, her spirit crushed by a foolish and destructive belief.

Them faces the sky and screams. He screams and screams and screams, anger and hatred and self-pity and disgust and melancholy and every emotion he has ever known overwhelming him. (Happiness for achieving immortality. Melancholy for losing his one and only love. Hatred at his selfish goals. He’s drowning in humanity, and _oh, God, it hurts, hurts so much. Make it stop._ ) At some point, his screams turn inhuman, sounding less like a man and more like a beast. (Because that’s what he is. No man is meant to live so long. He’s turned into a beast. He’s screaming and screaming as all his humanity leaves him.) There are whispers all around him, though there is no one around him for miles. His screams echo across the empty valley. He cannot feel anything around him. There is no magik around him; there is no magik in him. ( _Was this the price?_ This is the price. The whispers are becoming louder and louder and louder. He can feel every single ounce of emotion he possesses in his body. It’s all hot, _burning. Make it stop! Make it stop! Why is this happening?!_ The whispers, _the whispers! Everything hurts! MAKE IT STOP!_ ) One final scream rips from his throat before he falls to Hermia’s body, sobbing his heart out. ( _The whispers are getting louder. What’s left for him now?_ _MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ ) And, then, it’s all peaceful. All quiet. Them feels light. He feels free. (He feels empty. He feels broken. He feels free of humanity.)

 

Them buries Hermia under a willow tree. (He tells himself that he chose willow because it was her favorite tree. He tells himself he did it out of respect and love. _The truth is that he feels nothing. He’s empty. He buried Hermia there because it was the most convenient burial site._ ) He moves on with life. (What life?) He becomes a scholar. ( _But he can’t feel anything! What’s the point of staying with society? Of staying anywhere?_ ) In the end, he slices his own throat. ( _The pain is something he welcomes._ )

 

He wakes up again, still in the world. ( _He can’t die. Alright. HE CAN’T DIE!_ )

 

He remains in Greece until the Romans take over. He keeps moving. Eventually, he reaches Europe, more specifically: England. ( _It’s the Middle Ages. Magik users are hunted and feared. Them still feels empty._ )

He’s coping with immortality, feeling every year that passes in which he still looks young, handsome. ( _Lie. He can’t take it. He feels empty, empty, empty._ Hermia was the light. Now, she’s gone. He’s left alone in the darkness.)

People start to question his unwavering youth. (He changes his name to Thomas and moves on.)

 

The year is 1492, and he is still in England. He has adopted the identity of Thomas Riddle, an English lord. He has a large castle and plenty of servants. ( _He feels nothing. Nothing at all._ )

Thomas has created a network of rich and well-connected Englanders, allowing him to always stay well-informed.  Word comes of a group of wizards and witches that has banded together and believes Thomas to be an abomination. They make it their life mission to see Thomas killed.  ( _How cruel._ He used to be one of them.)

When they come, he’s ready. The magical beings truly have no idea what he is, knowing only that he is invulnerable to time. They do not know that he is invulnerable to death, invulnerable of any kind of human emotion anymore. They do not know that death has made him more capable of darkness and malice than ever.  (So, when they come, he’s ready.)

They surround him at night, blocking every route of escape. He smiles enchantingly and eyes one of the prettier witches. “Now, now. Don’t be like this,” he coos maliciously.

“You have no chance of living another day, Themistocles.” The witch spits his true name in disgust. She is quite stunning with dark hair and jade-colored eyes. “There is no escape for you.”

“How about you allow me to leave? It shall be easier for all of us then.” Thomas glances around the circle, searching for the weakest of them all.

The witch smirks smugly. “I think not.” She nods at one of her fellow warlocks. “Begin,” she orders. They begin chanting in Latin, linking all of their magik together.

Thomas roars in pain, the witches giving him a painful aneurysm. (It is pain as he has never felt it before, burning his insides and setting his skin alight with heat. It leaves him feeling weaker than he has ever felt before.) He falls to his knees, clutching his head. (The witches are trying to overload him with magik, trying to erase the mistake of immortality.) He lets the magical beings run their course. (What they do not know is that Thomas had taken a poison prior to being surrounded. The poison takes effect and stops his heart, effectively killing him for a brief moment. _The witches do not know that they are torturing a corpse._ How sadistic, he thinks.) He awakens feeling revived and invulnerable to the pain.

“We are helping you.” The pretty witch smiles at him, malice in her eyes. “We are reuniting with your dead lover. It’s a pity, though. I heard that she had been quite a beauty before you got to her.”

The jab is intended to rile Thomas up, bring the witches more satisfaction about his death and suffering. ( _He doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore._ ) Thomas laughs, a cruel and bitter bark of laughter. The witches are so focused on being in tune with their magik that they do not notice that it is no longer affecting him. He rises on one knee, grabs the hidden knife from his belt, and flings it to his side.

The knife pierces the heart of a young redheaded warlock, breaking the link of magik. The warlock dies with a loud gurgle, blood darkening his tunic and leather vest.  The witches cry out in surprise, caught unaware. While they try to relink their magik, Thomas takes two more of them out, the blade striking the girls’ necks at a particular angle. The witches panic and try to flee. Thomas smiles sadistically, breaking a witch’s neck in one swift move. Three more witches follow suit. In the end, only the pretty witch remains.

“How can you do this? Kill your own kind? What kind of monster are you?!” she cries, scuttling backwards as he looms over her.

“The best kind,” he answers. “The one who does not feel and the one who does not care.” (He has never stated his emotionless state out loud. _It echoes in his hollow heart._ ) “What is your name?” he questions. When the witch does not respond, shaking her head in fear, he asks again. “What is your name?”

“Iss...Isadora…” she stutters, kicking at his feet in a vain attempt to flee.

He grabs her by her throat, lifting her to her feet. “Well, Isadora. When you meet Death, greet _my dead lover_ for me.” Thomas twists her forearm around to reveal a long, pale blue artery. He slices the knife down, exposing the artery that starts oozing blood. ( _Blood, so much blood._ ) He proceeds to do the same to her other arm. “Enjoy your last moments,” he whispers with depravity. He walks away, leaving the witch bleeding to death on the ground.

 

The others learn to not come after him. ( _A couple of bloody hearts send the message._ Thomas is ruthless to those who still insist on trying.)

 

Years and years and years pass. ( _He still feels empty. It’s starting to feel cold. It’s been too long since anything as set his heart aflutter._ )

He moves on from England and spends a few years in Paris and Barcelona. He comes to America. ( _Thomas Riddle feels more like his identity than ever._ )

 

It’s been so long since he’s felt anything. Out of pure boredom, he lets in everything, all at once. ( _It’s an explosion._ He screams and screams and screams himself back to life. He sobs and cries himself to sleep for weeks, his soul haunted by his murder of the witches. _Jade-green eyes gaze at him in his nightmares. The pain for Hermia is afresh again._ )

It takes almost ten years for Thomas to be able to fully bear with all the emotions. ( _But wasn’t it worth it? His life is full of color again. He feels full; he feels human._ He is not.)

 

In Salem, Thomas Riddle watches falsely-accused witches burnt to death on a stake. He pities them. ( _Pity. He can feel again._ ) He sadly cannot help them. (Once in a while, the crazed priests and villagers will find a true witch. _And, isn’t that a horror._ In those moments, Thomas knows that Hermia would have found tooth and nail to save them. _But she can’t._ )

There is one time when the villagers find a true witch. Her name is Amelia Richards, but she goes by Mia. ( _Amelia has never sounded more like Hermia._ ) Thomas mistakes her for Hermia at first. They look almost exactly the same, mahogany curls and coffee eyes and ivory skin. ( _But Mia lacks the fire and the grace that his Hermia had._ ) He turns away when they light her ablaze.

 

It’s been centuries, and nothing has happened. ( _Nothing has made him grateful for facing his emotions. The nightmares still haunt him._ ) He considers abandoning his emotions again. (He does for a week. _This mistake is one of the worst he’s made in about a thousand years._ He feels numb on the inside and slits his wrists, _his throat_ , just to feel something again. _The numbness is unnerving; the pain is overwhelming. The pain is welcome._ )

 

Time passes ( _again_ ). Thomas moves from city to city, country to country, continent to continent. (Lie to lie.) In 1924, he encounters a bird, a bird in a gilded cage. (Her name’s Lincoln. 22. She’s everything Hermia should have been with him. She takes every man’s breathe away, the way she shimmers in those sequins and silk to the jazzy tunes. Bold. Bright. _New._ ) But, like every bird, she’s let free. And, then, her wings are broken.  (He tells her his secret, his life over the years. _She understands. She begs him to stay with her._ He does. Seven years later, a mobster stabs her under the glowing streetlights. _She burns out._ )

The bloodshed that follows is enormous. Blood spills from edge to edge of Chicago. Bodies litter streets. Women and children and all survivors cry and mourn and vow revenge. They blame it on the mobsters and gangs, all the carnage. They don’t know the truth. (And Thomas? _Thomas relishes in the fact that for once, he can feel every little bit of satisfaction at their pain._ People call him a monster. _He’s glad. It gives him an excuse to act the way he truly is._ )

He leaves Chicago, changing Thomas to Tom. Tom Riddle is what he is known as, now. (Thomas was the one who struggled through every cycle of humanity and morality. _Tom is the monster who brings carnage everywhere he goes. He does not care one bit anymore._ )

 

  1. Tom joins the US Army. Fighting amongst the men on the battlefield, he can sense their desperation, their struggle to remain moral and ethical. (He almost feels human. _Almost._ )



A bomb buries him in dirt; he digs his way out of the packed earth. (He charges and snaps necks, dropping bodies ruthlessly. _The colored uniforms start blurring together after a while._ )

 

It’s 2015. He spent decades spilling blood and bodies. Now, he settles down. (He hasn’t stopped, though.) Tom Riddle is the Head Detective of NYPD. He’s cruel; he’s cunning; he’s effective. (He causes pain without causing himself pain.) He’s bored. (In the dark alleys of New York, he snaps necks and robs criminals of information, single-handedly bringing down criminal empires. _No one suspects a police officer._ )

He’s sitting at his desk, examining his gun neatly. (Everything is neat about him. Grey suit. Black tie. Hair combed back. _Necks breaking cleanly._ )

“What do you mean that you can’t file a report?” a loud, feminine voice interrupts his process.

“I am sorry, ma’am.” From the sound of his voice, the desk sergeant seems hassled. “The details you gave are sparse and rather nondescript.”  
The woman huffs. “What else can I do? It was dark. A tall man snatched my purse from my hand.”

“That will not help us. I’m sorry, Miss-”

“Ms. Granger.”

Now Tom looks up, intrigued. There is something familiar in that voice of hers, a familiar tremble of anger and frustration. ( _A tremble he hasn’t heard in a thousand years.)_ He cannot tear his eyes off of her. (It is her. _Hermia. As young and beautiful as ever._ ) His breath hitches in his lungs. ( _This is not real_ , he recites. _This is a cruel, cruel illusion._ ) He opens his eyes. She’s still there.

“Forget it! I should’ve known that no one would believe or listen to me!” She’s ready to storm out of the station, anger radiating in her curly, wild mane. ( _She is Hermia. Hermia is here._ )

“Excuse me!” Tom calls after her. “Ms. Granger.”  
She looks back, contempt in her gaze. “What?!”

Tom follows her outside, stopping by her at the steps of the station. “Head Detective Riddle. Can you tell me where you were robbed?”

“What? You believe me?!” Her scorn is sharp.

Tom smirks. “There is a largely-popular gang roaming the streets of New York right now. The Death Eaters. Every crime is partly caused by them. I believe that we can help each other out. Just give me the information I need, and I will make it sure that your belongings are returned to you, untouched.”

“Fine.”  She turns her head to face him. (And Tom gets his first good look at his true love. At his missing half. _His light._ )

And Tom sees how exactly this new woman is Hermia. And how Hermia is not her.

It is the same face. Petite body, curves and all. Heart-shaped face with ivory skin. Bold, expressive, coffee-colored eyes. Chocolatey, wild curls with caramel highlights. Small, button nose. Pointed chin. (But there are differences. In this doppelganger’s stance. In the jut of her chin. The curls that seem more tamed, smoother. The face that is unwrinkled with knowledge of power. _She is not Hermia. Not exactly.)_

“I shall contact you when I need information. How will I find you?” Tom questions.

“I work at NY Metropolitan. I’m a surgeon. Just ask for me. My purse is a brown leather satchel. It’s covered in colorful beadwork. You won’t be able to miss it.”

“Of course. I shall see you then. Good day.” Tom turns to march back inside, his heart thudding. ( _Blood is spreading through his veins. He feels warmth in his heart. He feels something softening._ He tries to shut it out. _He can’t._ )

“Hold on!” Hermia’s copy yells. “What’s your name?”

“Tom. Tom Riddle,” he answers. (Tom. Thomas. Them. Themistocles. _He is Them no longer. He is not who Hermia knew._ ) “And you?”

“Hermione. Hermione Granger.”

(Hermia. _Hermione._ Already, the faded image of Hermia is filling in, gaps being erased, fixed by Hermi- _Hermione._ )

 

Tom steps into the alley.

Two men hover around a third men who kicking at something solid. Getting closer, Tom sees what he’s kicking. Or more precisely who. Tom shakes his head and smirks. He sprints into the alley, knocking into the first man.

The man tumbles onto the ground, winded. His companions look up and snarl. One of them pulls out a knife. “Get outta here before I gut ya.” Spit spews from his open mouth.

Tom’s response is to punch the man in the gut, following up with spinning roundhouse kick. He moves gracefully, reaching for the man’s neck and twisting. (The _crack_ is satisfying enough.)

The formerly-winded man leaps to his feet, jamming his elbow in Tom’s neck and then crushing his forearm into Tom’s neck. He squeezes hard, lifting Tom up.

Tom gasps for air, clawing at the man’s arm, his legs kicking wildly. He jabs his elbow backwards, moving it as far as he can. Judging from the drawn-out groan that escapes his captor, Tom has succeeded in distracting him. The pressure at his throat increases full-force. Tom’s attempt has been fruitless.

Dissatisfied at his slow choking, Tom’s captor pulls harder and harder, breaking several bones with a loud crunch. (Tom blanks out, black spots dancing across his vision. _Death seizes him again._ )

(Moments later, Tom awakens, tossed aside like abandoned garbage. He’s angry, rage making him shudder. How did this imbecile kill him? _Tom cannot count the number of ways he’s died. He’s choked, he’s been stabbed, he broken his neck, he’s drowned, he’s been shot in the head and in the heart, he’s been poisoned...The list goes on and on, countless painful Deaths._ But how did a human take advantage of him? _It was Hermia. Herm-Hermione._ She’s been on his mind ever since the encounter. _She’s killing him. She’s making him weak._ ) 

His murderer is standing in front of him, his back turned. He’s trying to find a place to stash Tom’s body.

Tom can see that the other man and their victim are long-gone. He slowly rises to his feet and jumps, clawing at the man’s neck.

Blood splatters. The man looks into Tom’s face and pales. “H-ho-how?” he gasps with a wheezing breath. “I-I kill-killed you!”  
Tom smiles, blood dripping from his face. “I can never be killed.” (The man dies with a shuddering gasp. _Blood. Blood. So much blood._ )

Tom catches up to the last man who is running towards the pier. The victim has vanished. Tom grabs him by the throat and clutches his chin painfully. “Yesterday, you snatched a purse from a woman. Brown leather, colorful beadwork. Do you have it?”

The man wheezes. “What’s it to you?”

“Your colleagues are lying dead at the bottom of the Hudson. You will join them unless you give me what I ask for. I believe you should reconsider your life choices.” Tom presses his thumb into the man’s jugular.

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you! Just, please, don’t kill me!” the man whimpers. He starts rattling off an address. “You should find the purse there, along with everything I’ve stolen.”

“Of course.” Tom sighs and looks away. “Now, see. You are just a loose end.” He snaps the neck and drops the body. (All of them do indeed end up in the Hudson.)

 

Hermione holds her purse up in astonishment. “Thank you!” she cries. “I didn’t think you would actually do it. No one seems to keep their promises in this city.”

“And you shall find that I am the exception. I always fulfil my promises.” (Except one. _We’ll be immortal and together forever, my love. You shall always be mine; I shall always be yours._ )

“Thank you! I have to return the favor! Are you free to get lunch tomorrow? Or maybe coffee? I probably seem too forward.” Hermione starts to ramble. (Tom pretends that it doesn’t make him yearn for simpler, more mortal days.)

“No, never. I would love to.” Tom grins at Hermione. “Tomorrow at Hogsmeade Café at noon?”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Thank you, again, Detective.”

“No, please. Call me Tom.” (Not Them, not Thomas. Tom. _Tom seems to be less the name of a monster, more the name of the man._ )

 

She’s running late. Tom sits at the café table, checking his watch. It’s 12:10. (Maybe it was better? Hermia was the light of his life. _And the Death of light._ ) He takes the liberty of ordering for her and himself. (In case she shows up, he tells himself. _He hopes she doesn’t._ Or does he hope she does?) It’s Sunday, and Tom is out of his usual suit and, instead, in a dark grey Henley and jeans.

She comes jogging through the door and spots him, slipping in the chair opposite him. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find a taxi, and, when I did, there was traffic. And, oh God, I’m sorry. It must sound like I’m making excuses.” Her hair is wind-blown, and her cheeks are pink from the wind. (She looks adorable, Tom thinks before rebuking himself.) She’s attired in a blue-and-white-striped dress with white boots. “Hello!” she calls to a waitress. “I would like to order!”

“Forget it. I have already ordered for you.”

Hermione looks a little shocked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Most men worry about what not to eat.”

“I do not.”

“What did you order?”

Tom smiles, shaking his head. “Just wait and see.”

They start chatting. Hermione is the daughter of two dentists and grew up in London before moving to New York to go to medical school six years ago. She loves reading, her favorite color is grey (Like the color of a stormy sky, she says. _Like the color of his eyes. Hermia always loved his eyes._ ), and her birthday is September 19. ( _Hermia’s birthday was in the autumn._ She never had a specific day.) She’s 24. “What about you?” she questions.

Tom tells her that his birthday is December 31. (He knows it was in the winter. _He chose the end of the old year because it represented new life. Rebirth._ He scoffs at the idea now. Still, he has stuck with the date.) He loves the color brown. (The gold glinting off her hair. _Not the scarlet of blood._ ) He tells her he’s 27. (He doesn’t truly know. A thousand years ago, he was almost three decades old. Now, he’s a thousand years and three decades old. )

They are still talking when their food arrives. Hermione glances down at her dish in surprise. “Lemon chicken salad? Along with peach iced tea? I’m impressed. This is almost exactly what I would have ordered.”

“I told you I’m good.” Tom smirks. (Hermia used to love anything sour, especially lemon. Peaches were her favorite. _He would Conjure peaches in front of her and wow her while she was still learning._ )

Hermione laughs, a melodious sound. ( _Hermia would laugh like that. It would drive Tom to lift her up and spin her in the air._ ) It makes him want to hold her in his arms. (Her or _Hermia_?) He doesn’t.

He picks at his own salad, finishing the little lettuce and spinach leaves. When both of their meals are finished, they get up and walk outside, sitting down in front of the fountain.

She sighs, “That was a nice…Is this a date?”

“It can be if you want.”

Hermione stands up quickly and shakes her head.

Tom is alarmed, also getting up. (Something sinks in his stomach. _Is this how it’s going to be? He finds his dead lover’s reincarnation only for her to reject him?_ )

“If we’re going to do this,” here she pauses and takes a deep breath, “we are going to do it the right way. I want a real first date. This is just a getting-to-know-you lunch meeting.”

He nods, answering slowly. “Okay. We’ll set a day. We’ll decide on that later.”

“But.” Something in her voice stops him. “I still wish to keep meeting. This was fun. You are much more interesting than the last few guys that Ginny’s tried to set me up with.”

“Ginny?” Tom asks.

Hermione smiles. “She’s my best friend and used to be my roommate until she moved out to live with her fiancé, Harry. You should meet her soon. All of them.” She sits back on the fountain’s cement bench, sighing, her face buried in her hands.

“Hermione?” Tom perches next to her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I met you two days ago, and, now, we are already on our first unofficial date. And I am already to enter a relationship with you. But I just met you. I barely cracked the surface of what is Tom Riddle. It’s just-I mean-this, this feels more real and freer than any pre-relationship meetings I’ve had with any one. You are just the first one to understand me so well, the first man at least. It’s like you’ve already met me and know who I am.” Hermione sighs, running a hand through her messy hair.

“Of course, Hermione. I feel the same way. You just relate more to me than any other woman I’ve tried to date.” (Lies. _Hermia was the one and only._ ) “If you don’t want to rush into a relationship, we won’t have our official first date for a month or two. We can keep meeting each other for lunch and coffee, and, if you decide you don’t want to do this, whatever this is, then don’t. Let’s just enjoy the company of each other for now.” He stands up, holding his hand out for Hermione to take. “I know many restaurants and coffee shops. We won’t run out of variety.”

Hermione takes his hand, stretching her feet, and laughs. “Okay. But I think I killed the mood for today. I shall see you tomorrow, then?”

Tom smiles again. (He’s smiled more in the last couple days than he has in a few decades. _What an effect any version of Hermia has on him?_ ) “Yes.”

“Gryffindor Lattes. At ten. In the morning, of course. Don’t be late,” Hermione calls as she strolls out of the plaza.

“I won’t.” Tom laughs, speaking to himself. He wanders off.

 

That night, he beats six men terrorizing a woman to the brink of death. But he doesn’t kill them. ( _Hermione drives the thought of satisfaction at death out of his mind._ )

 

Days pass, and, then, weeks. Tom learns more about _Hermione._

She loves decaffeinated tea but drinks outrageously-sweetened lattes. She loves caramel and chocolate. (It’s strangely fitting, considering her hair and eyes.) She mostly wears sweaters, blouses, jeans, and boots. Sometimes, her friend Ginny forces her into pretty dresses and skirts and high heels. (Tom doesn’t care how she looks.)

Hermione has three main friends. Ginny, her best friend, who she met in an art course in college. Ginny’s brother, Ron, who was in her first literature course in freshmen year. (We dated for a month or two, Hermione tells him. It didn’t work out, she assures him. We are just friends now.) And, finally, her almost-brother Harry. Harry was the one who helped her adjust to the difference between London and America.

The more he learns and the more she tells him, the more Tom realizes Hermione is unique. ( _Hermione is not Hermia._ He can see the differences now that he couldn’t see before. _He couldn’t see past Hermia’s face._ They both were compassionate and passionate and kind and gentle and filled with beauty. Hermione is bolder, more expressive, stronger. She’s more independent and experienced than Hermia ever was. _Hermia was a naïve and innocent soul._ They both were born with a fire in them. _Hermione’s just burns a little brighter, a little more powerful._ Hermia was dainty; she made Tom want to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. _Hermione is…Hermione is unrestrained in the way that she drives Tom out of control; she makes him want to push her to a wall and make forget everything but the two of them._ Hermia was the light. _Hermione is the wildfire._ But they were, are, both a light in Tom’s darkness.)

 

Soon, it is time for their first date. August 14th. That is the date they set. Tom plans everything out perfectly.

He is at the gate of her apartment building at exactly eight. He holds a bouquet of amaryllises, peonies, calla lilies, and purple irises. (All are flowers of their past. _His and Hermia’s._ He needs to stop comparing Hermione to Hermia. _Peonies were Hermia’s favorite flowers. He found Hermia sitting in a field of purple irises. A field of amaryllises grew where they practiced magic. There were calla lilies near the pond where they died. Where Hermia died._ ) There’s also a branch of willow in between the flowers. ( _He buried her beneath a willow tree._ When what made him human was gone.)

Hermione steps outside, dressed in grey-green jumpsuit with a grey moto jacket and black peep-toe sandals. “Unusual combination of flowers,” she notes as she embraces Tom and receives the flowers. “I like it. There’s something so wistful about calla lilies, you know. They signify magnificence.”

“That is precisely why I chose them. You are magnificent.”

Hermione blushes. “Let’s go.”

They walk to the Metropolitan Art Gallery, Hermione telling him about her day at work. Once they arrive at the front steps of the Grecian-style building, Hermione exclaims upon seeing the banners advertising tonight’s event. “They’re holding an exhibition on Luna Lovegood’s work! I’ve only seen a few of her paintings, but I love them.”

“I know. That’s why I pulled some strings to get us tickets to the opening night of the exhibition. It is an extremely exclusive event.” Tom reaches for her hand, gripping it tightly. (So that he could never let go. _Never_.)

Hermione’s coffee eyes enlarge with alarm. “What?! Oh,” she groans. “I’m extremely underdressed.”

“Nonsense. You look fine. Besides, there are so few people attending,” Tom assures her. He leads her into the lobby, stroking her palm with his thumb. He nods at the receptionist and marches into the first room of the gallery. “Ah, here is the first one.”

The painting is a watercolor-on-canvas depicting a field of daisies with a small figure of a women in white seen in the distance. It is simply titled _Daisies_.

“That’s beautiful,” Hermione gasps. “Daisies signify innocence; so does white.”

Tom is speechless. ( _Daisies and white._ Hermia. _No, no,_ he thinks. _Hermia is gone.)_ “Come, let’s see the others.”

They stroll through the gallery. Luna’s paintings are displayed prominently, and they are all incredibly beautiful, but Tom and Hermione enjoy a few of the other artists’ work.

There is one of Luna’s works that strikes a particular chord in Tom. The painting is done mostly in shades of grey, red, orange, and yellow. The image is of a phoenix emerging from a haze of smoke, the smoke appearing pitch-black around the edges of the canvas. (Tom wants to laugh. _He, the phoenix emerging from the darkness. If anything, he was the darkness._ )  It’s titled _Them._ “The significance of this image is overwhelmingly important to me,” he tells Hermione.

“Why?” she questions.

Hermione’s question is interrupted by the appearance of one faerie-like dirty-blonde. She’s petite and delicate-seeming, yet off-balances that fact by wearing a bright yellow dress.

“Them!” Luna Lovegood cries. She slings her arms around Tom. “It’s been so long!”

“Hermione, may I introduce to you Luna Lovegood, the star of tonight’s exhibition.” Tom gestures to Luna. “Luna, this is Hermione Granger. She is a surgeon at NY Metro and is my date for tonight’s event.”

“Hermione! It’s a pleasure to meet you. How do you like everything?” Luna winks.

Hermione laughs enthusiastically. “I loved your painting. _Daisies_ was a beautiful display of innocence and purity. And Tom was just telling me that he loves _Them._ ”

“Them, you love your self-portrait?” Luna questions, beaming.

Before Tom can get a word in, Hermione is already asking, “Why do you call him Them?”

“You haven’t read that? It’s part of a Greek myth.” Luna fiddles with a colorful string of stones wrapped around her wrist. “Themistocles was supposedly a wizard in Ancient Greece.”

“Wizard? Like with wands and everything?” Hermione grins.

“Yeah. Anyways, the wizards and witches in Greek myths are just humans gifted with power by Hekate, the Greek goddess of magik. They supposedly drew their power from nature. Themistocles, everyone called him Them, searched for a way to become immortal. He thought that immortality would bring him true power, even more than magik.”

“Did he succeed?” asks Hermione.

Luna shakes her head. “No one knows. There’s no ending to the myth as far as I know. But, when I first met Tom at a gala a few years back, his thirst for knowledge reminded me of Them. The myth also inspired this painting. I should go now. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Thank you.” When Luna was gone, Hermione turned to Tom. “She’s nice. A little strange but perfectly friendly,” she tells him.

“I know.” (Luna was his answer to all his former sadism. _Luna’s paintings were what allowed him to have a glimpse at who he had become. And who he actually wanted to be._ )

By the time the night ended, Tom leads Hermione back to her apartment building. Hermione sighs, pacing around. “That was nice. We should do that-Oh!”

Tom had turned around, gripped Hermione’s chin a little tightly, and kissed her, hard. He pours all his pent-up emotions into the kiss. Their heads move side-to-side slowly as Hermione weaves a hand into his hair. The feeling of kissing Hermione brings back memories of kissing Hermia. ( _Hermia._ All of it is too much of remembrance for one day.) He releases Hermione and takes a step back “I am sorry. That was too abrupt.”

Hermione touches her swollen lips. Her hair is messy, but it makes her look more beautiful. “It’s fine. I liked that.” She looks away. Recognizing that the moment has indeed passed, she also takes a step back. “Would you like to come upstairs?” she questions.

“No. Not this time. It’s getting late, and we both have to get to work tomorrow.” Tom turns on his heel.

“Tom,” Hermione’s voice makes him look back. “We should that again.”

“Yes. Yes, we should.”

(He never tells her _what that painting meant to him_.)

 

As he enters his apartment, Tom tosses his jacket aside furiously. He runs a hand through his already-messy hair and rolls his shirt-sleeves.

He strides to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that faces the New York skyline. Grabbing a brush and palette, he takes a seat in front of the canvas and begins to paint. He dabs here and there, brushstrokes becoming wider and longer. (He took up painting after he let all his emotions back in. He had been confused and very emotional at that time. Painting allowed him to let go and expressive some of that emotion and helped him recall his forgotten memories. _It helped him remember. It helped him forget._ He gave up painting in the decades after Lincoln’s death when he was a monster, _he still is, deep inside_ , but resumed a few year back.)

He paints through the night, and, when dawn breaks, he stands up and gazes at his finished result.

It is Hermia standing in a grove of willows. (It is clearly Hermia, _the pure compassion in her eyes. Truly Hermia._ ) She dressed very finely and extravagantly in a rust-colored chiton, golden bangles glittering down her arms and jewels woven in her pinned-up hair.

Tom snarls. The purpose of painting has failed him this time. ( _It forced him to remember._ ) He snaps his paintbrush, dropping the remains on the floor, and swipes at his palette, sending it scattering into the air. The paint splatters across his wall, creating an array of color.

He is about to attack the painting but he falters. (The image of Hermia still haunts him.) He cannot bring himself to destroy it. He lifts the painting and carries it his closet. (He put it with the rest.)

 

The next weekend, he and Hermione have dinner at his apartment for their second date. He cooks all afternoon, trying to perfect all his recipes for Hermione’s taste. When Hermione arrives, dressed in a bell-sleeved lace dress with tan gladiator sandals and a gold bangle around her wrist, she gasps in awe upon seeing Tom’s view of the city. “If I had known you had that view, I come ‘round sooner.”

Tom serves her a variety of dishes. Authentic Spanish gazpacho. Garlic shrimp. Crab fettucine with a pesto sauce. Paella. And, for desert, chocolate and almond brownies.

“This is all so good,” Hermione moans as she tastes the brownies. “Where did you learn to make all this?”

“Here and there.” Tom smirks as he leans over the table to kiss her. He can taste the sweet taste of chocolate on her lips. (Lie. He learned how to cook all across the globe. He spent a whole decade in India, learning to cook authentic Chicken Tikka Masala. _The spiciness reminded of the heat of the phoenix blood-belladonna serum going down his throat._ )

 

The next morning, he wakes up to the smell of frying bacon. He pads into his kitchen to find a fully-dressed Hermione cooking breakfast.

He asks her to move in with him the next evening.

 

A week later, Hermione finds a few of his less-personalized paintings stacked in behind his bed. She confronts him about them when they both return from work that evening.

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“Where else would I meet Luna? At an art gala.”

She asks him nothing else.

He says nothing else.

She hangs the paintings on the walls of their apartment.

 

Months pass. At the end of Hermione’s birthday dinner, Tom gets down on his knee. He doesn’t even receive a chance to open the box or ask the question.

Hermione bursts into tears and cries her agreement.

Tom gets back on his feet and slides the ring on her finger.

It’s a simple band of twisted silver and gold, a small ruby embedded in the center. (The silver is Hermia. The gold is Hermione. _The ruby is scarlet blood, slipping through Tom’s fingers._ )

 

They get married in a tiny ceremony in the vineyards of California’s Napa Valley.

Hermione is attired in a flowing white gown, face makeup-free, with a circlet of twisted gold running around the crown of her head. Her hair is tamed, falling into neat curls. She’s radiant.  (All he sees in Hermia on the day of their wedding. _She stand at the gazebo in a pure-white chiton, a crown of peonies woven through her wild curls._ )

Ginny Weasley-Potter, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Lavender Weasley, and Luna Lovegood are the only attendees.

 

They honeymoon in Greece. (Tom shows her the grove of willows where her doppelganger’s buried. _Hermione understands that the site means something to him._ )

Tom tells her he was born in Greece. ( _He tells her nothing else._ )

 

Half a year later, Gellert Grindelwald is found and arrested. He’s sentenced to a life sentence. Tom is given all the credit. (It was him doing most of the dirty work.)

They throw a gala in his honor.

Tom arrives in a black tux with a green tie and Hermione on his arm. She is dressed in an emerald-green mermaid gown that flares out from the waist. There is a peacock-style sapphire and emerald necklace around her throat and sapphires at her earlobes.

They twirl and dance throughout the night. (It becomes his favorite memory. _His happiest memory in almost a thousand years._ )

 

Everything comes crashing down upon Tom one day in August. (It’s been almost a year since he and Hermione first met.)

A couple of Grindelwald’s former followers take revenge for his imprisonment.

They barge into the police station and shoot everyone in sight.

They aim for Tom.

He gets shot in the heart.

 

They take everyone, corpses and survivors both, to NY Metro Hospital.

For not even the first time in his thousand years, Tom wakes up on a cold metal table. The room around him is stark-white and covered in tile. (It takes him a moment to realize that he’s woken up in a morgue.) He knows that he died again. Shot in the heart. He hasn’t died for a while, so he’s forgotten how sore he always feels when he wakes up again. (And there’s a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach. _Hermione…_ There is one hospital closest to the police station, and that is NY Metropolitan. Where Hermione works. _He hopes that she hasn’t seen him, dead._ )

There’s a messy-haired brunette head buried in his neck. (Tom’s heart plummets. _He wanted to keep Hermione away from this. From everything._ ) 

Tom reaches a hand to stroke Hermione’s hair. “Hermione,” he groans.

Hermione lifts her head up, her eyes red and puffy from crying. When Tom cranes his head, he can see dried tear tracks. (His heart _aches_.) “What?” she whispers, confused for a moment. Realization hits her quickly. “Tom!” she cries. “What? How? You were dead!” Hermione wails.

“Hermione, I…” Tom tries to say.

 “You were DEAD! YOU ARE DEAD! How is this possible?!” She leaps from the chair she was sitting on next to Tom’s stretcher.

“Hermione.” Tom sits up and tries to reach out to Hermione.

“No! Get away from me!” she screams. “You’re dead!”

Tom gets to his feet and takes a step towards her.

“Get. Away. From. ME!” Hermione swings the chair around and points the legs towards Tom, backing away until her back hits a surgical table. “You are dead! Who the hell are? What are you? What have you done with my Tom?!” She swings the chair around in a circle.

Tom narrowly avoids the chair, ducking and turning to the left. “Hermione!” he cries.

Hermione pitches the chair at him.

Tom dodges, and it hits the wall with a loud _crash_! “Hermione!” he cries again. “Listen to me, love!” He dives for Hermione, pinning her to the tile floor.

Hermione’s head hits the floor, and, then, she lies there, dazed. Slowly, she reaches out a hand to trace it over Tom’s lip and along his jaw. “You’re real!” she whispers. Hermione begins sobbing.

“Hermione. Hermione,” Tom whispers, stroking her hair. He gathers her in his arms, and she burrows her head in his chest, sobs wracking her body.

Silent tears drip down his cheeks, too, mingling in Hermione’s hair. (He knows that everything will change now.)

What seems like eternities later but is actually just minutes later, Hermione lifts her head up again, asking weakly, “You’re alive. How?”

“I’ll tell you soon. First, let us get to our apartment.” Tom helps Hermione to her feet, and they hobble out of the morgue and hospital and into a taxi.

 

In the end, he tells her. He tells her everything.

He starts with the story of his beliefs about immortality and how that united Hermia and him. He tells her of how they achieved immortality together but only he survived. (He tells her of his encounter with Hekate.) He explains how he lost his humanity and turned into a soulless monster. He tells her about how much he enjoyed murdering those witches. He tells her about letting in all back in and the remorse he felt for Mia Richards.  He tells her about Lincoln and all the good in his life. He tells her about how he became a true monster and relished in his savagery. He tells her how he gave that up when he met Luna and how he started painting, then and now. He tells her how he changed his true identity several times. Finally, he tells her how he saw her and fell in love with her.

(He doesn’t tell her how she and Hermia look exactly alike. How they are doppelgangers. _It’ll all be too much for once_.)

All throughout, Hermione’s face remains unchanged. Her face remains stoic.

In the end, when he’s done, he looks up and asks, “Do you believe me? I told you everything.”

Hermione laughs, unsure of how to react. “Do you know what you’re telling me? You’re telling me a tale, a tale based on a Greek myth. You’re telling me that everything I knew about my husband was a lie. Do you even know what you are asking me to believe?”

“Yes. Everything I told you, and have ever told you, is true.” Tom sighs.

Hermione takes a deep breath. Stands up. Paces before sitting down. “Fine. I believe you. Your whole story is too complicated to be fake. And many of your details explains some things about your nature.”

“Good. I promise you will know everything from now-“

Hermione cuts him off. “No. You don’t understand. I married a liar. I married a murderer.” (Tom bristles. _But she didn’t call him a monster._ ) She turns suddenly, looking away from him. “But, through everything, I love you, and I vowed to be by your side forever.”

Tom can’t help but smile.

“So you can’t die?” Hermione asks.

“Correct.”

“And you haven’t age a day for more than a thousand years.” Hermione sighs. “Great, my husband is some crazy, witchy-freak immortal who will never die. Not even when I’m dead.”

“I will never leave your side while you remain living and breathing,” Tom is quick to add.

“Oh my God. I’m not even sure if I can believe that!” Hermione mumbles. She clears her throat, glancing up at Tom. “So, does Luna know who you are? What you are?”

“No.”

“So, her whole nickname and tale was a lucky coincidence?”

“Yes.”

She plucks at a loose thread on her uniform. “Is your name even truly Tom Riddle?”

“No. My name is Themistocles. Thomas Riddle. Tom Riddle. Those names are all identities I used to move on.”

She sighs again. “I do believe you, I truly do. I just need some time. Just give me some time.”

Tom nods somberly. “Take all the time you need.”

Hermione laughs awkwardly. “Good.” She stands up and walks to the door. “I’m staying with Harry and Ginny for a while.” She leaves.

Tom punches a wall when the door shuts. He pulls his arm back, examining his bruised knuckles. He cradles his fist and slumps to the floor. (He hides the crack in the wall with another painting.)

 

Hermione returns home a few days later. “I have decided that I will stay with you. We married each other, are in love for a reason, and nothing can change that. I realize that you lied for a reason. You lied to protect me, and I respect that,” she tells him.

“Thank you,” Tom replies. “I will never lie to you again.”

“But,” Hermione says. “Tom. Themistocles? God, what do I even call you?”

“You can call me Them,” he remarks.

“Okay. Them. But, you have to tell me everything. I know you left something out. Something major. I trust that you will understand why I’m asking.”

Tom sighs. “I can’t tell you.”

Hermione draws in a deep breath.

“But I can show you,” he continues.

He leads her to their closet and removes the false wall. They walk into a decent-sized room filled with paintings. ( _His paintings._ )

Hermione walks up to the first one and gasps, hand reaching out to feel the paint and canvas. It’s a portrait of Hermia sitting on a log, trying and failing to spark a ball of fire in her hand. ( _Tom-Them can still feel the heat of the spark._ ) “Is that…?” Hermione asks.

“That is Hermia,” Tom answers. “Hermia on the very first day that I met her.”

“Why do I look like her?” she questions.

“I do not know. That is what drew me to you in the first place.”

“Is my face the reason you married me?” she retorts.

“No, I married you because I wanted to. I married you because I realized that you are not Hermia. You are different.” Tom steps behind Hermione. “I married you because I love you,” he whispers into her hair.

Hermione seems satisfied with his answer and moves on. She strolls around the room, her eyes trailing each painting.

(Some paintings in here were painted almost four hundred years ago. They are all his. _They are all his life, his life story._ )

She stops at the most recent one. The one of Hermia and the willows. “Is this the same place we saw in Greece?” she whispers.

“Yes,” he chokes out, grief clogging his throat. It is the first time he has told anyone everything about him. (He never told Lincoln about his soulless years.) “That’s where I buried her.”

Hermione comes and hugs him from behind. She strokes his hair and speaks into his ear. “I love you. There is no need for you to ever lie to me again. Never.”

 

And life goes on. The police station rebuilds. Them solves more cases than ever. (Now unburdened by his secrets.)

Hermione goes back to work and helps people to her fullest ability. (She even changes Them’s death records. Makes them nonexistent. No one questions it. All the witnesses from the shooting are too traumatized to remember that a murdered coworker is alive and well.)

And life goes on.

 

A couple years pass. Now, Hermione’s the same age as him. Them rarely dies now. (He does once in a while when he makes a major mistake in a case. _Hermione always has his back._ )

All of Hermione’s friends are having children. Harry and Ginny already have a son, and Ginny is pregnant with their next one. Ron and Lavender are also expecting. Even Luna who married a botanist, Rolf Scamander, last year is expecting a set of twins. She says she’ll call one Lysander and the other Themistocles. (Them knows she’s joking. She’d never name her child that. _Or, at least, Hermione convinces her not to._ )

Hermione still calls him Tom in public. But, when they are alone together, she calls him by his true name. Them.

Hermione wants a child. She never verbally states this, but Them can tell. Them doesn’t know if his immortality will allow him to create a baby. He voices his concerns to Hermione.

Hermione agrees. They don’t want to risk disappointment. They agree to adopt, maybe in a few years. But, for now, they adopt two tomcats, one extremely-fluffy ginger and a silky-grey kitten. Hermione calls the ginger Crookshanks. Them names the kitten Marvolo. (Hermione scoff at the name. _Them scoffs at Crookshanks’s name._ )

 

Hermione’s 29 now. Them is still 27. (He thinks.)

Them decides to suggest that they start thinking about adopting now. (He never gets a chance.)

 

Hermione is walking home from work one evening. (She’s just weeks away from her thirtieth birthday.) A random man dressed in black grabs her purse, and they struggle for it. When she doesn’t let go, he shoots her and runs off. ( _It’s the same purse Them stole back for her in the beginning._ ) A jogger finds her lying in a pool of her own blood and takes her back to NY Metro.

They call Them after they put her in the same surgery room she worked in. She was shot in the gut but lost a lot of blood before she was found. When the bullet is removed, they shift her to the ICU. Them is there the entire time, yelling and pounding at the ICU doors.

(They tell him after she spends a full twenty-four hours in the ICU. _She’s not going to make it._ They let him in to allow her to spend her last moments with her. She whispers ‘I love you’ with her dying breath as he places one last kiss on her lips.)

After all her funeral arrangements have been made and the funeral is over, he goes after her murderer.

 

He yells and screams and pounds the crap out of the man. His anger makes him clumsy, allowing the other man to get a few well-place hits in.

Them rises to his feet, wobbling. He places his hands around the man’s neck and squeezes mercilessly. He drags the man the short distance of the pier, choking him the entire time. At the Hudson River, Them snaps the man’s neck and drops his body in the flowing waters.

Spots dance across his vision. He feels a sharp pain in his abdomen. He places his hand there, and it comes back gleaming scarlet with blood. (The man stabbed him while Them was distracted.)

He keeps his hand pressed there for pressure, trying to staunch the bleeding. He drags his body all the way to the police station. Along the way, he realizes that he is not going to make it. He will die. (Again. _For the first time in five years._ )

He reaches the steps of the station when he collapses. He lies there as all the life, the blood, drains out of him. (He flashes back to the first time he died after he became immortal. When he slit his throat. _It was the first time he died after he lost Hermia. This is the first he’s going die after he lost Hermione._ )

Them gasps one dying breath. (He will probably still be here when he wakes up in the morning. _Maybe he’ll wake up in the morgue again?_ )

 

Themistocles never wakes up again. ( _Death has finally caught up to him_.)

 

He is buried next to Hermione. His gravestone reads _Thomas M. Riddle_. (Luna has _Them_ added in nostalgia.)

Hermione’s reads _Hermione J. Granger._ (Luna stumbles upon his secret gallery in his apartment a week later. _She understands everything._ She has _Hermia_ engraved under Hermione’s full name.)

 

Finally, Them is reunited with his dead love, both sides of her. (In the end, _they were one and the same._ )

 

_Immortality._

In the end, it neither brings Them immense and unknown power or true wisdom and knowledge.

It only brings him light.

Hermia. And Hermione. Two sides of a coin. Two lights in the darkness. _His darkness._

 

Them believed that Hekate killed Hermia in retaliation of their attempt to gain immorality.

_She did not._

Hermia, in the end, was the master of the stars.

 _She ended up separate of Them, meeting Fate instead of Hekate. Fate had something else in store for_ Hermia.

She was shown two futures.

One where she became immortal with Them. _But the pain and frustration of not being able to die caught up with her, and she shut out all human emotion._ And Them.

The second was her death. And her rebirth. _Them lived a long, tortured thousand years, filled with brief moments of happiness._ Hermia became Hermione and brought him relief from the pain. _A means to an end._

The choice was simple.

_Them suffered for eternity, or Them suffered for a thousand years._

The choice was obvious. _Hermia loved Them too much to allow him eternal torture that could be ended sooner._

The sacrifice she made was one of true love, in the hopes that Them would find her again and take all the happiness he could.

He did.

It took two deaths and a thousand years.

But true love won out at the end.

_The course of true love never did run smooth._


End file.
